


Away From Watching Eyes

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2765450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, AU, semi-canon, multi-chapter, romance, hurt/comfort, only the last chapter is M. Elizabeth Keen is tired of being watched, so she decides to sneak away and spend a little time alone, just for herself. But there was a reason she was being protected. The result forces Red to change his approach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awareness

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory Disclaimer - I do not own these characters and I am not making any money with this fic.

Special Agent Elizabeth Keen is tired of being watched. Guarded. Overseen. She knows it's for her own safety, but when does it stop being worth it, this half-life without a shred of normality? Without privacy. Without space to feel, to grieve, to start again.

She knows the Bureau is watching her, Reddington's people, and Reddington's latest enemy, an over-dressed woman without a name they are calling The Belle. And also, maybe, still, whoever had dropped Tom into what had been her life. They were all presumably watching or attempting to watch out for each other as well. Just thinking about it exhausted her.

Nameless faces in crowds, shadows around corners in the night, nothing specific for a profiler to think about, just watching and possibly waiting to die for her. Or for something else, something she doesn't quite understand.

She varies her route to work and back home again, if the small, cheerless apartment in the concrete block of government protective housing she had been assigned could be considered a home. She had fought to travel back and forth by herself, not shuttled in a car like a child. Today she takes a cab to a bus stop, then settles onto the worn vinyl bus seat with a tired sigh after flashing her bus pass in one of several alias names. It's morning, gray light through dense cloud cover and a biting wind that makes her grateful this is not a morning she needs to walk, and she's already tired.

The bus pulls away, pulls to a stop, shudders as it nudges back out into traffic.

"May I sit here, dearie?"

The older woman has a thick Irish accent, she's wearing a worn black wool suit that smells of dry cleaning fluid and her iron gray hair is covered by a black kerchief.

"Of course."

Liz slides over to the window seat, making a conscious effort not to reach for her shoulder holster. The woman's hands are pudgy and age-spotted, thick with callouses. Her thin gold wedding ring is embedded deep on her ring finger, as if she's been wearing it for twenty years. She's clearly not an assassin, just a stranger on the bus.

The woman's eyes follow hers to the ring.

"Married twenty six years to the same man" she says proudly. "Never a dull moment with my Sam."

Liz flinches at the name, she can't help it. 

"Are you married dearie?" asks the woman, squinting down at Liz's hands, now folded on her lap. 

Liz shakes her head. The pale marks where her rings had been are long faded, but not the memory of that pleasant weight on her hand, the flash of diamonds that warned others away. She had liked being Tom's wife, belonging to someone, giving her promise for a lifetime, until it had all turned out to be lies.

She's divorced now, so she supposes that makes her a liar too, despite the circumstances.

The old woman shakes her head disapprovingly. 

"A beautiful young woman, you should be married by now. There's nothing in this world like the love of a good man."

The love of a good man.

Liz wants to sneer, especially when the first face that pops into her mind is that of Raymond Reddington.

The bus lurches as it rattles away from another stop, only three more until she needs to get off, and both she and the old woman sway in unison, clutching at the molded plastic handholds afixed to the seat in front of them.

If Raymond Reddington has ever loved anyone, it's not in his substantial dossier. She can't even imagine him as a small child with parents, looking up at them adoringly for guidance - she assumes he must have been a secretive and manipulative child based on his calculating charm, his slicing wit, his tremendous self-possession.

Neither a good man nor one inclined by nature to leave himself vulnerable to love.

When they had first started working together, catching criminals from his blacklist, she had sometimes felt a warmth in his measured gaze, had wondered if she meant more to him in some way than just a means to an end. She had noticed the little touches he gave her in passing, but had noticed too that he never crossed that invisible line of which every woman is aware, from affection to intensity. But seeing Reddington so frequently had still led to a sense of familiarity, even apparent intimacy.

The Belle had changed all that. 

He had all but disappeared from her life once his enemy was recognized. The Belle was trying to get to Reddington though Liz, and twice she had almost succeeded, slipping through their grasp in a way that made the probability of a mole more and more certain. Liz had shot her way out of their last failed operation with calm and precision, and had felt the pressure of the watching all around her increasing.

She wasn't precisely the goat, but Reddington hadn't been to the Post Office in more than a month, and his supply of blacklist names seemed to have inexplicably dried up since the last attempt on her life, just when she really needed a new project, something to get her back out in the field. She'd barely spoken to him the few times he had called, just taken down the information he provided before he brusquely rang off.

"You do have a man, though, don't you dearie?" the old woman pats her hand in a patronizing way. "I can see you thinking about him, worrying about him. He'll come around, don't you worry."

"This is my stop" responds Liz, starting to stand so that the old woman must heave herself to her feet and move back in the aisle to let her out. Her mind feels like it has gone blank and her mouth is dry and she suddenly realizes that if she doesn't get off the bus she will have a panic attack. "Have a good day." 

"You too dearie."

With a few quick strides Liz finds herself standing on the sidewalk at the wrong bus stop, three blocks from where she was meant to descend. She has stepped down into the overhang of a bus shelter which has been plastered with posters for a local protest march, blocking the clear plastic panels on either side. Another bus pulls up from right behind her bus, disgorging several teenagers in hoodie sweatshirts and baggy jeans, so that she is momentarily surrounding by joking strangers.

Why had the old woman said that? And why did the realization that she misses, actually misses Raymond Reddington make her feel so sick to her stomach? 

Liz glances around quickly as the teenagers spill out onto the sidewalk, suddenly realizing that no one else has alighted from the bus, there is no black car pulling to the curb, indeed the traffic just seems to be streaming on past her.

She has inadvertently evaded the watchers. She is alone.


	2. The Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red has a plan, and it involves staying far away from Elizabeth Keen.

"Thank you and good night." 

Raymond Reddington acknowledges the shift change of his hired bodyguards with a few words and wave of his glass off the balcony of his rented, furnished house in Boston. The new team of ten men dressed in white camouflage suitable to the snowy scene spread out and disappear into the landscaping.

Ice chimes against crystal as he takes another sip, gazing out at the blackness of the night sky, the stars hidden by the lowering clouds that promise more snow for the weekend.

Raymond Reddington is not a patient man by nature, but he has learned to cultivate patience the hard way, by watching disasters unfold due to lack of foresight, lack of planning, lack of care.

After years of constant travel, he has been at the same safe house for almost three weeks.

He has sent Dembe away, ostensibly to manage certain delicate negotiations in Hong Kong, but really to get his dangerous, constant companion visibly out of the way.

It has been a very, very quiet three weeks.

He can only imagine that his apparent vulnerability is being perceived as an inexplicably dangerous trap, one The Belle is unwilling to test. There are five approaches to the house, and two are being minimally guarded, although carefully monitored.

Nothing.

He will need to become more visible. 

The Belle can be taunted, he's quite sure of that. She cares about outward appearances, although her taste in overpriced haute couture clothes, flouncy, shiny, and usually overly revealing, is dubious at best. Red smooths the finely woven wool of his suit vest with an appreciative hand as he sips scotch with the other. There's more to dressing well than the amount of money one spends on clothes.

Lizzie in the red dress. Now, that was perfection.

He shakes his head as if to clear away the thought, and steps off the balcony, shutting the french doors behind him. An alarm beeps softly as the security system re-engages.

A pile of invitations, announcements, and charity appeals sits waiting for him on the inlaid cherry sideboard. His identity here as a foreign national, a Dutch benefactor of several local foundations, staying in town to receive an award and identify new charities to support, has garnered him all the social visibility he needs and more. It's tiresome to speak through a translator at parties, but he manages to amuse himself as he waits for The Belle to make her move.

His Lizzie is growing tired, possibly careless, and there is a new, almost arrogant tone in her voice that he does not like at all. That he recognizes as dangerous. Elizabeth Keen is not a patient woman, and she has not lived long enough, suffered enough, to play the long game now when it matters.

So he keeps his phone conversations with her short and to the point. He doesn't want to snap at her through the phone, can't play their usual verbal games when he's not free to see her in person, reassure her with his physical presence. She's so suspicious that sometimes all he can do is step a little closer to her. She's a trained agent, she can feel the violence in him, has seen him in action, and she can't help but relax on some level when she's near him, knowing he's promised to keep her safe. 

She'll just have to wait until his work is done, Red decides once again, ignoring the twinge of intuition at the back of his mind warning him about leaving his Lizzie alone for too long. Even if she doesn't wait patiently. So long as she's safe. That's all that matters.

Red selects an embossed, cream-colored invitation and sniffs it delicately, enjoying the mild scent of French perfume.

A benefit ball hosted by the daughter of a local parfumier.

The perfect place to see and be seen. 

Refilling his glass, Red strolled to his room and examined the tuxedos hanging in his walk-in closet. His usual suits on the right, evening clothes on the left. As expected, he has several immaculately tailored choices for the following evening.

The Belle will see his photo in the society pages and assume he is confident and unafraid, going about his business without any concern for the threat she is posing to his criminal enterprise. To his Lizzie.

He has to convince The Belle to strike before Dembe returns.

Then he'll give Lizzie the next name on the blacklist. 

Seating himself on the side of his bed, Red swallows down the last of his scotch and sets the glass on the marble topped french nightstand. He'll undress, he'll take a long bath, and then he's got some reading to do, really engrossing reading on Brazilian politics. 

He hangs his head and rubs the back of his head, the short stubble of his hair a little longer than usual, staring down at his wingtips, imagining the conversation.

Lizzie will be angry with him for not communicating, for going off and running his own operation without involving her, for not giving her the next name on the blacklist sooner. She won't yell, but then she'll say something cutting, and then she'll flinch, realizing she's lost control of her tongue once again.

Red likes it when she's angry, when she glares at him, when he has to calm her down, charm her, surprise her or make her laugh. When she makes him work for her cooperation, for one of her flashing smiles. When she challenges him to meet her emotionality with his bland, almost smug facade of good cheer.

It can't ever be easy or he'll forget himself. When she looks to him for comfort, for reassurance, there's a line he dare not cross. Patient as he may be, Raymond Reddington knows himself too well for that.


	3. Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz makes her escape.

The street is busy, lined with coffee houses and mini-marts and boutiques frequented by shoppers mingling with tourists and punctuated by business people glued to their cell phones. Their expressions are concerned or serious, never playful.

I must look that way on the phone too, thinks Liz to herself. She feels her lips start to turn up at the corners as she thinks about her last call with Reddington. He had been so terse with her she had barely managed to get a dig in about how he could think crime was more important than their efforts to catch the The Belle.

I need to watch myself in a mirror the next time I talk to Red, she decides, trying to imagine her own expression. I wonder how I look when I'm talking to him?

Pulling the belt of her long black coat tight against the chilly morning, Liz looks around as she walks alone towards work, enjoying the sensation of being one person experiencing the world. It feels as though she's in a bubble of safety, as if there is no danger at all in the world. Her shoulders relax as she walks briskly, alert but not concerned. She has at most three blocks before they all catch up with her, they are probably already spreading out from her bus stop.

I need this, thinks Liz to herself, smiling at a plump woman clutching the mittened hands of twin girls, towing them protesting away from an artfully arranged store window displaying candy and toy plastic horses and giant stuffed animals. I need some time away from all this. Some quiet, private time.

"Agent Keen!"

She's at the bus stop now, somehow she had started walking faster as she though at Reddington, and now her brief glimpse of freedom is over. 

"Agent Keen - are you alright?"

A short, muscular man with a shaved head and ex-commando written all over him is glowering at her from a nearby doorway.

"I missed my stop" she responds, forcing a smile.

She waves back as two dark suited agents she vaguely recognizes from the elevator hurry away from curb just past the bus stop to converge on her, their expressions lightening with relief.

"We were about to call Ressler - he's ready to call in an all points ..." one of the agents pants.

"I'll talk to him when I get inside" she answers, hurrying but unable to forstall the other agent holding the door for her. She scowls at him and feels her shoulders draw up the with the familiar excitement of descending into her secret work place. At least here she wasn't being watched.

"Hey, I thought you would have left for Florida by now?" she greets Ressler as he comes towards her, his face a little flushed and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Everyone in the office knew he had rented a house in the Keys, complete with a boat, for a full week of vacation with his newest flame, Marla Dietz, an actress known for her dramatic roles in soap operas. He had even borrowed a small plane from a friend to fly down to Key West with her.

"I'm leaving tonight after work, since you're finally here" he retorts, tugging at his tie as though it were strangling him, "and what the hell kind of a stunt was that, anyway?"

Liz starts to glare back, then shrugs, trying to let the sudden flare of anger drain away from her. Ressler didn't come up with this plan. Instead, she motions him into a nearby conference room.

"This isn't working" she whispers, waiting for him to close the door before raising her voice. "The Belle isn't buying our approach, and we're not on the offensive with her, so we're not on her radar. We don't even know if she's still in town at this point."

Ressler nods, listening. He's not sitting down, but he's still listening.

"I just wish I could get away like you and Marla - somewhere no one could find me."

Liz sighs, then tilts her head as Ressler looks down for an instant, no longer meeting her eyes.

"What?" she asks, letting him hear the genuine concern in her voice. "Is something wrong between you two?"

Ressler shakes his head. 

"No, but she can't leave today - she has two days of "very important auditions" in Atlanta before she can join me."

He lets out a small rueful laugh. "So I guess I'll just be fishing for the next two days. Please don't tell anyone else that she chose to skip part of our first vacation together."

Liz catches at his arm as he turns towards the conference room door.

"Take me with you, please," she begged. "I'll wear a blond wig so I look like Marla, I'll stay at the house while you're out on the boat, just please get me out of here for one weekend."

Ressler frowns.

"Even if I wanted to, which I don't, they'd all just follow you down there, and we don't have enough coverage in Florida, not without some time to set this up."

Liz thinks quickly.

"If I can get out of my apartment without anyone knowing, will you take me? Please? I'll be back here before Marla even arrives. I'll be perfectly safe if nobody would even think that it's me. They'll just assume I'm staying home all weekend. Catching up on my sleep."

Ressler shakes his head. 

"I guess you're owed a vacation as much as I am - If Cooper approves it, then fine" he answers, pulling open the door and ushering her out into the hallway. 

**

Key West is a glittering puddle of light surrounded by black expanses of ocean as Ressler banks the little plane and sets it competently if not gently down just before midnight. Liz leans forward and rotates her tight shoulders, stretching.

"You're not going to need that coat here - why don't you leave it in the plane?" Ressler suggests, reaching over to tug at the heavy flight jacket he had loaned her for the flight. 

Liz grins, unclips her seat belt, and slides out of the coat to reveal a short, flower patterned sundress with her shoulder holster belted carelessly over it along with low-heeled sandals and a long, elaborately styled blond wig.

"Well, shore, honey" she answers, mimicking Marla's heavy southern accent. Liz likes the actress, even though she suspects the accent is as fake as the color of the younger woman's honey blond hair. She gives the hair a dramatic flip.

"Behave, or I'll paddle you like I do her" retorts Ressler, who then breaks out laughing at her horrified expression.

"I can't believe you said that" she exclaims, laughing even as her cheeks redden with embarrassment.

"I can't believe you fell for it" he answers, grabbing both of their bags, his heavy leather suitcase and her lighter canvas satchel.

With an ease that makes clear his experience with the trip, he steers them both to a rented Jeep waiting in the lot, and finds his way without a map or GPS through town to the Overseas Highway, and up the string of islands to their rental house.

Liz leaves the window open the whole trip, smelling the fresh salty air and trying not to check the rear view mirror too often as they speed away into the darkness, patently not being followed as the night closes in over them. One road, no traffic; no more watchers, at least for a little while.

"You know, this is really romantic" she ventures to say, after a few minutes of silence. "Marla is sure to love it down here."

Ressler shrugs tiredly and parks in front of one of a line of identical white houses, strangely close together. Liz can hear the water somewhere very close, but she can't see it at all.

"I'm going to check on the boat" says Ressler, as he flips on the lights in the entryway, revealing a pleasant room decorated in tropical fabrics, "The fishing is best in the morning."

Liz kicks off her sandals in the hallway, then self-consciously picks them up and gathers up her bag. She needs to act like the guest that she is, and not make a mess all over just because a little disorder makes her comfortable.

Tom was a real neat freak. 

Liz wonders if Raymond Reddington is overly neat in his personal quarters as well, or if he just hires good housekeepers. If it's a characteristic of certain types of criminals. Not for the first time, she wonders if she'll ever write a book on profiling law enforcement from the criminal perspective. She's pretty sure she has enough information to start writing one already.

Why does she keep thinking of Reddington? After all the trouble she's gone to, this is supposed to be a vacation from work.

"I'm going to get a shower and sleep" she tells Ressler, reassured by his casual wave at her as he proceeds to the glass doors that make up the far wall of the living room, then pull them open, folding away like an accordion, to reveal a big white boat docked at the bottom of the small garden behind the house.

The house fills with the murky, brackish scent of the Gulf, a soft breeze playing across her face.

"Very nice!" Liz calls after him, knowing he is already intent on checking out every feature of the boat. Apparently, he had looked at available boats first, and afterward their associated houses, when selecting this rental. 

Upstairs, she flips on all the lights as she wanders from room to room, leaving the master suite for Ressler and choosing a back bedroom that overlooks the dock. There is a rack in the closet for her bag, and she dumps her holster and gun on the bedside table beside one of a pair of matching glass lamps with straw lampshades with a sigh of relief.

A fresh white cotton terrycloth robe hangs on the knob in the bathroom and the jetted tub looks deep enough for her to float. There are white candles lined up on the bathroom counter, and piles of clean white towels on a wall mounted rack within easy reach.

This place feels ordinary, anonymous, relaxed. Just what she needs. 

And best of all, her phone is locked away in Cooper's desk drawer. If the bureau needs her for the next two days, they can always call Ressler.

She is alone, gloriously alone.

For two whole blissful days.

She thinks she will have two days. She only has one.


	4. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red finds out where Lizzie has gone

One of the many things Raymond Reddington has never told Elizabeth Keen is how closely he monitors the activities of everyone around her.

He assumes she would be unhappy about his efforts to know her better through knowledge of her friends and colleagues, perhaps even furious.

He'll mention it if he ever needs to get her really riled up, perhaps in order to distract her. Perhaps to distract himself.

He calls it the daily report and usually Dembe is the one to deliver it verbally, editing out the extensive written documentation from multiple sources to only the salient points. 

Since he arrived in Boston, he's heard more detail and less analysis, by phone, from a sardonic older man who lives in Toronto. He's called the Radio Man and both his technical skills and dry, incisive analysis have often made him useful to Red.

Red thinks as he waits for the call that if he were ever to be so foolish as to list out his strongest allies, he would certainly include the Radio Man.

It's late Saturday night and the benefit ball has gone off without a hitch. Red has had more than a little too much expensive champagne to drink, courtesy of the limousine full of debutantes who offered to drop him off at his residence, and he's undressing the moment he walks in his front door, noting the security alarm lights blinking green on the panel in the hall. Two of the downstairs guards circle past him without speaking, more strangers hired for the duration.

"Report?" asks Red, answering the call with the phone crooked between his ear and his shoulder as he works at his right cuff link, hurrying up the stairs for the privacy of his bedroom. The Radio Man gets straight to the point.

"Something unusual - maybe you know about it already?"

Red sits down on the side of the bed and concentrates on the call. 

"Who is involved?" he asks.

"Ressler's girlfriend - the actress he's been bragging about taking on vacation?"

"Yes" nods Red, trying not to betray his impatience as he kicks off his patent leather shoes and leans down to rub the bottom of one sore foot, then the other. He danced almost every dance, each time with a different partner. And none of them had been The Belle.

"She flew down to Key West with him late last night - and today she's taping an audition in Atlanta."

Red rubs his forehead, then closes his eyes to try and think. The woman involved is Marla Dietz; he's met her on the party circuit more than once. She's known to be longing for acting roles that will offer her more scope that her contracted soaps.

"She's in two places at once?"

"She was at the audition" says the Radio Man with confidence. "I've seen the confidential footage - it's her for sure."

"So who did Ressler ....?"

Red swallows hard, twice, before asking the question in something resembling his normal voice.

"Is it Elizabeth Keen?"

"High probability" responds the Radio Man laconically. "Since she's stopped answering her phone. But no change in the security around her apartment, same players as always, no evidence of an event."

"No evidence of an event." 

No evidence that Lizzie went with Ressler against her will, every evidence that this planned trip, scheduled months before, had been carefully orchestrated to keep him, Raymond Reddington, as much in the dark as his, their, enemies.

He clenches his teeth and tries to remember the last time he saw Lizzie exchange any speech at all with Donald Ressler - it had to have been months ago. They had been arguing about the use of GIS, of all dull subjects.

After that afternoon, she had told him that they got along better, she and Agent Ressler, they worked better together, if they didn't talk too much.

And then she had talked for the next hour only to Red, smiled at him, argued with him. A masterful piece of misdirection.

He tries to smile in appreciation at the memory and finds that he can't.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed with a sock in one hand and the phone in the other, the Radio Man patiently awaiting his next question, his next command, and he's baring his teeth in a grimace that's nothing like a smile.

And his eyes are hot and wet and he tells himself it's fear. Because she's left herself unprotected at this most dangerous of times. Or it's rage. Because she didn't include him, didn't trust him enough to tell him.

But fear and rage, they both leave him cold. Cold and murderously intent.

The champagne is burning in the back of his throat, he's suddenly nauseous, and he knows that all he can do is stay in Boston and hope that The Belle attacks him soon and in force because he is so ready for a target he can barely see at all.

"Can you confirm that it's Keen without putting her at risk?"

His voice sounds so steady, this must be what it feels like to have an out of body experience. He's giving the Radio Man instructions, redirecting assets, weighing the risk of calling Cooper.

Red knows the Keys, he has old friends in Miami, his jet is fueled and waiting.

But he's trying at the same time to get his mental picture of Lizzie the last time he saw her lined up with his ongoing assessment of Donald Ressler.

He can easily imagine Ressler with Marla Dietz, but somehow not his Lizzie ... 

He can't justify showing up on their doorstep uninvited, and anyway his unhelpful mind insists on presenting him with brightly colored images of them laughing together in swimsuits in the Florida sunshine. 

He doesn't even own a swimsuit.

Red blinks and rubs both eyes with one hand, still holding the phone with the other. Ignoring the wetness, he forces himself to think clearly and dispassionately. 

Does it make it worse that Lizzie actually told him about the trip two weeks ago - she told him she had met Marla Dietz at a dinner party with some of her colleagues and had liked her?

The dinner party. A little calmer now that he has something to actually do, Red instructs the Radio Man obtain and transmit any available video of the event to his laptop as soon as humanly possible.

Then Red puts down the phone and takes off his other sock, takes off his tux and throws it on the floor, then lies down rigidly on the bed in his underwear and stares unseeing at the ceiling, focusing on his breathing, willing his mind to become calm.

****

Liz leaves her bedroom window open.


	5. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a tease, and pushes the rating up to Teen+.

There is a small above ground swimming pool, the water blindingly clear, built into the side of the deck in the backyard. An equally pristine hot tub bubbles nearby, chlorine scented steam rising into the cool morning air. Broad swathes of wooden deck lead down to the now-empty dock - Liz vaguely heard Ressler take the boat out just after dawn, but snuggled back into the covers to sleep late without fear.

Marla Dietz has no dangerous associates, no deadly enemies.

Liz dresses in her favorite blue bikini, slathers herself with hideously expensive sunblock, and takes her morning coffee out to sit by the pool. She squints in the sunshine despite her large round sunglasses, bought in the exact style often worn by Marla, until she relents and goes back inside for a broad-brimmed straw hat from the collection hanging in the entry hall of the rental house.

She hates the feel of the blond wig on her bare shoulders, but everything else about this house is perfection.

There are fresh croissants in a bag on the kitchen counter, butter and strawberry jam in the fridge, and the pantry holds a huge, partially unpacked box with an odd assortment of gourmet goodies.

It's like Ressler bought up Wiliams-Sonoma, Liz thinks with amusement, but of course there were no restaurants save the dining room at the Yacht Club on this key, which is known for privacy and exclusivity.

Stretching out her legs on the lounge chair beside the dancing water of the pool, Liz admires her bright gold toenail polish. It had seemed a little bright when she had it done, but now she realizes it is perfect for the Florida sun. She may not be Katie Perry, but she does like to feel attractive.

Attractive. Sexy. Beautiful. How long has it been since she felt anything that uncomplicated?

Unbidden, the image of a red dress, a dance, the one man who rescues her, again and again.

Liz sits up straight and gulps down the last of her coffee, then tosses the hat aside.

She can't swim properly in this wretched wig, but she sure as hell can float.

Pinning the long hair of her wig up into a makeshift bun, Liz lowers herself into the cool water of the pool and gives herself up a day of sybaritic pleasures.

***

By the time Ressler returns in the evening, Liz is lax with sun and water and expensive white wine, sitting wrapped in the white terrycloth robe on the deck as she watches the dancing flames of the small firebowl that marks the edge of the deck between the pool and the water. 

"An excellent day at sea!" Ressler exclaims, just a little too loudly. His nose is burnt red and his posture seems somewhat stiff, although not really unhappy as far as she can see.

"How was your catch?" Liz asks, sure it the right question for a person who has spent the day fishing until his face hardens imperceptibly.

"Tomorrow's another day" he answers her, holding his hands open at his sides. "I'll be going out early again tomorrow - let me get a shower now, and then I'll go out for groceries. If there's anything else you need?"

Liz shrugs without answering, embarrassed.

She does need more white wine, or more accurately, she'd like two more bottles, she'd like another day just like this one.

No phone. No paperwork. No watchers.

They had agreed, Cooper has positively demanded, that she not leave the house, that she not test her thin disguise which was sure to fail the first time any of the actress's fans caught sight of her, especially her wig.

Marla's thick, waist length honey blond hair is real - Ressler has assured her of it. His eyes twinkled when he told her, alight with happy memories.

Liz sighs and takes a last sip from her all but empty glass. 

How often does she allow herself to unwind like this?

Has she ever been with a man who wanted to carry her away to a tropical paradise?

Not that she can remember. Her dating life stretches behind her like a wasteland, lonely years and then the unexpected gift that was Tom, love and trust turning to blood and fear and betrayal ... and everything she has come here to escape, if only for a weekend.

Watching eyes. Constant danger. No freedom to start over.

She resolutely tries to turn her mind away from the thought of dating, taking a lover, starting over. It just sounds so impossible.

'Hi, I'm Liz! If you choose to date me, I can't promise that either of us will live out the month! So, welcome to my wonderful life!'

Who can she love now? And who can love her in return, since it can't just be about tropical vacations. She needs a man who can keep her safe.

Damn. She has to stop thinking about Reddington - it's bizarre, and inexplicable, and it will show on her face the next time she sees him.

He thinks of her as a daughter.

He'll just laugh, and pat her on the head, and saunter away, in one of his perfectly tailored three piece suits that each cost more than her entire wardrobe.

She asked Dembe about the replacement cost of a suit once, after a particularly nasty blacklister spattered Red bloody from head to foot while dying at his feet.

Sam had never been visibly wealthy, nor had Liz ever aspired to wealth, and now her funds were all tied in a series of trusts that Red has assured her are perfectly appropriate to her tax situation.

Why can't she stop thinking about him?

With a groan, Liz heaves herself upright, her head spinning from the wine, and heads upstairs, taking the time to shower and carefully moisturize her new suntan before turning on the overhead fan above her bed and propping open the small, second floor window to the now-steamy bathroom.

Naked, she lies atop the bedclothes, admiring her faint new tan lines, the defined muscles of her thighs, the bright gleam of her toenails contrasting with the more sedate tones of her french manicured fingernails.

She had told herself she would call Reddington and watch her own face in the mirror while she talked to him, hadn't she? She doesn't have her cell phone, but there is a landline phone on the writing desk right here in her room, and a mirror on the low dresser within reach of the cord.

Liz rises from the bed and grins a truly evil grin, admiring her toned, naked body in the mirror as she steps to the phone, trying to remember Red's latest phone number. The long blond wig sways, partially concealing her breasts, and she tosses the long length of it back over her shoulder and gives a little wiggle, leaning forward towards the bright surface of the mirror.

She knows that the bureau's phone staff are encouraged to keep a small mirror beside their phones as they work, to remind them to smile and thereby influence the tone of their calls.

What will he hear in her tone, will he know what to think, will he even answer the phone? 

At least it will be different, maybe even give her the upper hand in the conversation; if she can get him off balance maybe she'll learn something new about the Concierge of Crime.

Her right hand is on the phone as she hesitates, smirking into the mirror at the vision of blond loveliness she has become, her left hand twirling a lock of blond hair in what she hopes is a suggestive way, when a stranger in black bursts through the open bathroom window like an acrobat, then bounds on in a rolling somersault into her room, taser flicking out ahead of him before she even has time to turn. 

In the mirror, she sees a second man come fling in behind him. He grabs up her gun from the nightstand in his black-gloved hand as the convulsions hit and she falls away, down into darkness.


	6. Sought and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red meets The Belle

Red sits in his shirtsleeves having his breakfast, bacon and eggs and currant scones, as he listens to the Radio Man's latest report, video of the dinner party spooling on one laptop screen as Red types out queries on another. Plates of half-eaten fruit, cheese and pastries dot the table, evidence of a lengthy repast.

He's always preferred to manage one matter at once, keep his focus on what's important.

But now Lizzie is missing, Ressler in hospital but expected to recover, and the bureau swarming like hornets and driving any possible source of information even further underground.

So everything is important. Anything could hold a clue to her disappearance.

"Yes, yes, in a moment." 

Red gestures impatiently to the waiting body guards as they troop into his dining room, waving a scone in one hand as he tries to speed up the dinner video past a particular boring set of irrelevant toasts. He's only caught a few glimpses of Lizzie; she seems to be sitting far down the table away from Ressler, who is visibly fawning over the blond and beautiful Marla Dietz. This doesn't add up and he really dislikes it when things this important don't make any sense.

He needs to get to the airport, he needs to get to Florida, he needs to get to another country, another continent, somewhere he can finish his breakfast without receiving horrible news with his morning coffee.

"You are going to the airport, sir?"

The statement by the bodyguard freezes Red inside, even as he continues buttering the last bite of his scone. He hasn't ordered the jet made ready yet - he doesn't know where Lizzie is being held.

"Now I wonder why you would suggest that, given how heavily it is snowing" responds Red, stroking the pinpoint mike in his shirt collar as he speaks just to be sure it was still lodged in place. Unlike most people, Red never talks about the weather unless he's using it as a code. And someone is always listening.

"Snowing?" frowns the bodyguard, his gun flashing as he turns to gaze out the window at the serene white landscape.

"Must have been something I saw on the Internet, then?" muses Red in a calm voice, rising smoothly to his feet while throwing his grapefruit spoon overhand to lodge in the guard's right eye, bringing him down with a scream.

The other guard is drawing his weapon but Red is already in motion, launching himself across the table with the boiling hot silver coffee pot and bashing him on the side of the head, then rolling away as the man falls to the ground and begins to scream as well, their two voices combining in an eerie counterpoint.

"My, my, aren't we active this morning."

The woman strolling into his home is wearing the latest in winter fashion straight from Milan, layers of hand-knitted cashmere, picked out, beaded and embroidered in the colors of the season, yet somehow managing to appear frumpy despite her perfectly toned body.

"I don't believe we've been formally introduced" says Red, scooping up his hat from the table and briefly donning it, then doffing it her direction. "Raymond Reddington. And you are?"

The woman looks down and pinches her lips together for a moment, then pulls a tiny, pearl handled revolver from her knitted purse, attachs an equally small silencer, and shoots first one, then the second bodyguard. Pressing her gun right in the center of the forehead.

"Not my people" comments Red, watching carefully as she tucks the gun away once more, steps over one of the bodies and seating herself at his breakfast table with a dramatic flourish of her layers of skirts.

"Not mine any more" she sniffs, reaching out for a slice of rugelach. She bites into it and chews, her perfectly white teeth perfectly shaped, all too obviously capped. 

"Do you have something I want, lovely stranger?' Red asks, smiling his most urbane smile. "Because otherwise, I'm so terribly sorry, but I have just been called away on a matter of business. A most unfortunately ... urgent .. business."

Red can hear in his earbud that his own hired forces are massing, the many wheels he put in motion three weeks ago turning so inevitably. The wail of approaching sirens in the distance.

"Oh yes, I have what you want," she answers him readily, touching a napkin to the corner of her perfect cupid's bow lips. "I've come discuss the price - the price for Elizabeth Keen." 

Red looks down at his crumb strewn plate, then lifts up his coffee cup and takes a measured sip before gazing mildly over the rim at the seated woman.

"What makes you believe SHE'S not priceless?" he comments, watching her telltale lips tighten as she acknowledges the aspersion, the palpable hit.

"You're a businessman, Raymond Reddington. And you, like everyone else, have a price."

She smirks and picks up a fork, selects one raspberry from the fruit plate for consumption, then tosses the fork aside, staining the pure white tablecloth.

"And now that I have your delicious little agent, I'll get to learn, oh so slowly, just what that price might be."

"She's alive?"

The woman rolls her heavily mascaraed eyes.

"Well of course, can't do business without acceptable merchandise. I've got lovely photos of her vulnerable naked body once you're ready for proof of life. She's already begging me to kill her - I can play you the clip, if you'd like?"

This isn't the assault he was anticipating, expecting. Red has prepared for a frontal assault on his rental house, poison, even radiation. He expects her to try and kill him. To try and kill his people. That's something he understands all too well.

But his Lizzie in the hands of this twisted person? It simply wasn't possible.

"So there's something I have, something you want me to offer you in return?" he asks, taking another sip of his coffee, his hand perfectly steady.

The woman shrugged.

"I wanted to kill you, now I just want to make you suffer."

She stands, stretches, then strolls up to him and runs one beringed hand in a obscene caress down the front of his body, lingering below the waist.

"And you will suffer, Concierge ..."

Red raises his hands above his shoulders as if in surrender, dropping his gaze as she chuckles, her fingers spread wide as she steps closer, their bodies almost touching.

"You're under arrest!" 

There are men wearing the uniform of local cops standing in the doorway, guns drawn, Red's own agents crowding behind them in orderly support.

"Send them away" she orders Red, but he just steps back, and back again.

"He killed those men." 

Red looks down at the floor and sees one of the cops, the younger one, following his gaze. The other, older man is still watching the woman, his gun steady on her.

"You can't let them arrest me" the woman almost shrieks.

Red shrugs and leans down to take a slice of apple from the fruit plate.

"You'll pay for your crimes, with the death penalty if Agent Keen is dead already, and I'll just find a new pet agent to toy with."

The woman is handcuffed now, mouthing obscenities at Red, which he completely ignores.

"You do know I visit Quantico every year, just watching for my next little .. favorite?" he informs her urbanely, smirking inwardly as he sees an expression of defeat spreading across her face. "Murder of a federal agent - you'll disappear into a black site, and you'll never see the sky again, not until the day you die."

"I advise you to cut a deal while you still can" Red advises her with a predatory smile, strolling from the room as the Radio Man, dressed as a detective, comes strolling into the room.

"I'll just leave you to your negotiations, shall I?"

Less than an hour later Red and his team are wheels up for Miami, with the name and coordinates of the yacht on which Lizzie is being held.


	7. Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz awakens in captivity.

Liz wakes to cold salt water sloshing against her face, stinging her eyes and matting the blond wig against her face. Her arms and legs are completely immobilized by a length of some type of material wound tightly around her from her neck to her bare toes, and she bounces face down against wet rubber, then bounces again. She can hear the soft purr of a marine engine, but no voices, although she knows there must be at least two men nearby, and probably more. 

Her training takes over, forcing her to perform an assessment.

She's in a small dinghy, captured, not dead. She has value, alive, for what she can't be sure, and whoever has taken her needs time to realize that value. Therefore these men are conveying her to someone else.

She needs to find out who that person is, and what they want.

Liz sticks out her tongue and tastes the salty water - not brackish, it tastes clean and cold. She's not in the Keys any longer- they must be taking her out on the ocean. She can tell from the faint light that it must be nearly dawn.

No handcuffs or plastic ties, so not a government operation.

No respect at all for her dignity, so not a Reddington team. She knows what Red would do to anyone who treats her like this.

What Red will do.

As she bounces up and down harder, the dinghy apparently crossing a wake, her initial panic begins to subside.

She needs to hold to that thought. Red will come for her. He's promised to keep her safe. 

The dinghy slows, then jostles to a stop. She hears brief banter, the thwack of a rope against a hard surface, as a line is thrown and tied off. As two men grab Liz and begin to lug her prone body, head hanging downwards, up some steps, she catches glimpses of the sleek white lines of a mega yacht and the now empty dinghy below her.

What happened to Ressler? Why hadn't he protected her?

She tries to remember the last few hours, but her last memory before her capture is of looking at herself naked in the bedroom mirror. She remembers feeling drunk, daring, as if she had been about to do something extremely risky.

Then all she remembers is pain, her muscles contracting violently, someone pouring bottled water into her mouth.

Bottled water? Has she been drugged?

What on earth did she do, to end up here like this?

The men carry her down into the bowels of the yacht, down increasingly narrow sets of varnished teak steps and then past a row of closed doors, each with a guard outside, to a small interior cabin without furnishings. They dump her unceremoniously on the white plastic floor and one man reaches out for her ankle.

She hears the clank of a chain, the snap of a padlock.

Then the fabric around her is unrolled, leaving her naked and exposed on the cabin floor.

Liz tries to lurch to her feet, but all her muscles spasm in protest, locking her down in a moment of blinding agony. With an effort she turns her face towards the door.

One man bundles up the fabric, which turns out to be a length of polypropylene, complete with wide nylon straps straps and handles, while the other stands in the doorway with a pistol trained on Liz. Their ski masks render them faceless, and they are wearing heavy gloves and military issue boots.

They do this all the time, Liz notes analytically. They have specialized equipment for transporting unconscious or unwilling bodies.

The men stare down at her for a long moment, and she stares back, trying to hold their gazes. Making it clear that she's not ready to admit herself a victim.

The men turn and leave the cabin, audibly locking the small, rounded door. Liz squirms to her side, ignoring the muscle spasms that wrack her, and manages to determine that she is chained by her right ankle to a hasp set in the center of the floor of the cabin.

At least there is an overhead light, surprisingly bright. She can't see a camera but she has to assume there must be one - there's no window in the door.

The floor smells of lime-scented disinfectant, and there is a small floor drain near the door. A few hairs cling to the rusty grating covering the drain. She looks more closely; not rust, but some dark, discolored substance, probably blood.

Liz decides not to look at that grating again.

In what seems to be only a few minutes, but may have been hours, Liz can't tell, the door is unlocked and another man enters the room.

He's short, with dark hair, dark brown eyes, and an acne-pitted face. Eastern European, Liz thinks, managing to drag herself to a sitting position and calculating the length of her ankle chain relative to the door.

It's just inches too short, obviously by design.

He's carrying a low metal stool spattered with dark stains, and he sets it just inside the door and then seats himself on it with a grace that bespeaks tremendous control of his body. He leaves the door open behind him, allowing her a glimpse of the guard stationed at her door.

An interrogator. A torturer. A killer. 

She could smell it on him even before he smiles.

He does bland as well as Reddington does, but there is something cruel in the way he rubs his bare hands together before pulling on tight blue surgical rubber gloves.

"What do you want with me?" asks Liz, trying to look innocent and helpless. "Where am I? Why have you brought me here?"

The man continues to smile, lidding his eyes at her just a little. His eyelashes are short and dark, but very thick, and suddenly Liz thinks of Red's eyes, his pale, pale lashes that are all that save those knowing eyes from an unnecessary, almost feminine beauty.

She spends far too much time looking into those eyes for answers. She should have been looking for questions.

She keeps getting distracted from the important questions by struggling with the same issues over and over.

Who is Red and what is his role in her past? Why has Red made such an effort to work with her? What does he really want? 

She should instead be looking for Red's questions to her - What answers has she not given him yet? What are Red's unanswered questions?

The man on the stool clears his throat, a guttural sound of irritation that confirms her guess as to his origins.

He was just speaking, Liz has registered that, but somehow she hasn't heard the question.

"I'm so sorry, I'm just confused, I think they drugged me" Liz begs, meeting the man's eyes once more. "I didn't hear what you said."

"I want to know everything you know about a man named Raymond Reddington," he says, leaning forward slightly on the stool. "Begin talking now. Do not stop until I tell you to stop."

Liz swallows hard. The key to resisting torture is never to comply unless you see a clear advantage, never to compromise once you have taken a stand. 

If she tells this man anything about Red, eventually she'll tell him everything. 

"No" she says quietly, hearing her voice like a echo, the first step into a darkness from which she may never return. 

She has been well-trained over the years, she has prepared and updated herself with credible disinformation about the bureau that she can spout for hours. But not about Red. They had all assumed she would be killed to strike at him, not taken and questioned. 

"No, I won't talk about him."

The man raises one brow.

"But you will, Agent Elizabeth Keen."

He turns and looks over his shoulder.

"Bring in the first of the children" he calls through the open door, and Liz feels her throat close tight with emotion as she hears a high whimpering sound, the sound of a frightened child in pain, coming closer. Coming down the passageway to this room.

In that instant Liz realizes she isn't going to be allowed to survive. She knows too much, she's seen this man's face, she knows immediately why he hasn't even bothered to strike her.

Can she live with herself after she's watched a child die? Even if the child is eventually doomed, as doomed as she is herself, she can see that so clearly now.

Red is the only one with any chance of coming out of this alive.

Something shifts inside her then, something unflinching, as if Red is walking in front of her into the darkness, protecting her, somehow lighting her way.

As the first child is dragged by his hair into the room, Liz sets her teeth and prepares to endure. To the very end.


	8. Water: On, Above, Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red comes after Liz

Raymond Reddington is dressed in all black like his team, commandos, mercenaries and assassins, except that he is wearing an immaculate Italian suit and they are armed, garbed and geared for a full force night extraction. Behind him on the deck of the borrowed, ocean going behemoth of a yacht he's borrowed for the night, just this Sunday night, waits one helicopter, the other two hovering nearby as they await their turn to land.

Ray listens carefully to each detail of the plan being laid out for them by their leader, even though he had approved it two hours before on the jet. He watches the hard faces in the circle around him carefully to ensure than each of the more than twenty men assembled fully understand their roles.

Plan A. Plan B. 

Either way, the exit strategy.

Red touches his earbud as the leader repeats the mission codes, then the platinum watch strapped to his left wrist, apparently expensive, but instead modified to transmit his vital signs to the leader.

If he dies wearing the watch, or if they take it from him, Plan B.

The team leader finishes and looks around 

Then Red gives his fedora a tug against the crisp sea breeze and walks alone to the waiting helicopter. He's more than a minute out before the next one, a Blackhawk, settles down and the first half of the team swarms aboard.

***

Red motions the pilot down as soon as the dimly lit yacht below him responds to the recognition codes transmitted on one very specific frequency. As they circle down, he can see upturned faces, automatic weapons, even dogs on leashes.

Dogs. He shakes his head in wonder.

He's never been to a place like this, but he knows what this ship is - a luxury vessel, ostensibly the pleasure yacht of a wealthy businessman, where below decks there are rooms where answers can be obtained from the unwilling, often for a very reasonable price.

As a rule, Red prefers guile to torture.

At the moment, he can't help thinking that there are some people, one woman back in Boston in particular, who deserve to be tortured.

Holding onto his hat, Red descends from the elevator and gives the waiting men and their weapons his widest grin.

'Very nice, very nice," he shouts approvingly, gesturing to his pilot, who promptly lifts off before the approaching men get close enough to affect that decision.

"You are expecting me, I believe?"

Slowly, one of the men steps forward, silver-haired, a mobile phone in his left hand, and motions to the tallest of the guards.

"You will permit a search?"

"Of course, no trouble at all."

Red raises his hands and nods approvingly as the man searches him efficiently and thoroughly.

"Nothing."

Red tilts his head and gestures towards the open hatchway behind the man with the phone, the man he has identified as merely the commander of these men.

"I'd like to step inside and inspect the merchandise - these rental birds are such fuel hogs, really, I don't want to keep him circling up there forever."

"Come" the man gestures and Red finds himself surrounded by guards as he strolls down a narrow passageway. It's late at night, but somewhere in the yacht he can hear faint salsa music playing. He keeps his eyes forward, smiling as the men usher him into a large lounge decorated in black leather, zebrawood, and chrome.

A short man in a black silk robe, red dragons curling up both shoulders towards his acne pitted face, is watching an old kung fu movie on a wide screen to the left.

He looks over his shoulder and frowns as Red stops in the doorway, looking around with evident interest.

"Oh lion fish! How fitting!" exclaims Red, ignoring the man to stroll to a large aquarium on the opposite wall. He taps on the glass, watching in the reflection as the short man stands and strolls towards him without speaking.

Someone new to him, not unexpected given the circumstances.

"You do have her ready for me, don't you?"

Red whirls and the man freezes in his tracks.

"I have no such orders" the man responds. "Why are you here, Raymond Reddington?"

Red cocks his head to one side.

"We've come to a mutual understanding" he says, spacing out his words just enough that his tone might be an effort at clarity. Not necessarily so slowly that he could only be talking to someone of limited intelligence. There was a fine distinction. "Resolved our differences, so to speak."

Red watches the man's cheeks flush angrily as he absorbed the implicit message.

"I've come for Agent Keen - delicate little woman, blue eyes, short brown hair?"

After turning a full circle on his heel to once again survey the room, Red indicates Lizzie's height with one hand.

The man barks out a laugh. "Oh yes? And what are you giving us in return?"

Us? 

So this man considers himself partners with The Belle? Or perhaps, only in her absence?

Red draws himself up a little, allowing a little tic to flicker at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm not here to discuss our arrangement. I've already done my part. Do you have her, or don't you?"

The man scowls and tugs the silk belt of his robe tighter.

"I've heard nothing of any arrangement" he says stubbornly.

Red shrugs and takes off his fedora, then tosses it on the nearest table.

"Call her, then" he advises the man, beginning to slowly draw off his thin, black leather gloves. He looks around the room once again, then makes a beeline for the bar on the far wall and begins pouring himself a drink.

"Can I get you something?" he asks the man politely, shuddering as the man lets out an oath and drops his phone back to the couch where he had been sitting.

On the wide screen, a Japanese woman is weeping in black and white. 

"I can't get through to her" he tells Red with a shake of his head. "It's just going straight to voicemail."

Red lifts his glass towards the man with a genial expression.

"Here's to Hollywood - I think she mentioned something about a Prada event tomorrow?"

The man swears again, spreading his hands wide, as Red takes a long, appreciative drink.

"She is still alive, isn't she?" Red asks, holding up his glass and surveying the golden liquid within. "You know, I really prefer something a more peaty."

He takes a fresh glass, examines the array of bottles, then selects one and pours a generous two fingers into it before handing it to the man. 

"Oh she's alive all right" the man almost snarls, "But she won't be much use to you - I couldn't get a word out of her. Not one word!"

He swallows the entire drink and wipes his lips on the sleeve of his robe.

"What methods did you use?" asks Red, barely sipping his drink, an expression of polite inquiry firmly in place. 

The man scowls again.

"Just professional interest" Red adds hastily. "I'm merely an amateur."

That seems to be enough. The man sighs and crosses to the bar. He pours himself another drink and holds it up in a toast to Red.

"The Dead Children" he says gloomily. "I've never seen it to fail - not like this. All she did was cry, and beg me to kill her."

The Dead Children. The best test, bar none, for identifying psychopaths.

"How many, if you don't mind my asking?" Red asks, taking another sip. His hand is not shaking, it's completely steady. He looks down at the watch on his wrist, wondering what his blood pressure looks like to the leader.

"Three" says the man gloomily. "All we had here - and nothing!"

"Well, that's bureau loyalty for you, isn't it?" Red comments, finishing the last sip of his Scotch. Feeling it burning all the way down.

The man shakes his head wearily.

"No, the funny thing about it, all I asked her for was information about you. And now here you are, so what use would we even have for that information?"

Red laughs and picks up his fedora, setting it firmly atop his head.

"If you could have your men bring her up on deck then I'll signal my bird back down for the pick-up." 

Turning his back, Red follows several guards back up on deck. By the time the helicopter door is open, Lizzie is stumbling up on deck with a guard on either side of her, wearing nothing but a chain around her left ankle.

The men hoist her up into the backseat as Red watches, wiping their hands on their pants immediately afterward.

Red gives them a tip of his hat and climbs in after her, sliding the door shut.

Lizzie is folded up on the seat, shaking, her eyes glassy as if she's been drugged. 

"Plan A complete" says Red to the pilot as they lift up and away from the deck. "Stand down and complete the exit strategy."

As the pilot repeats his words through his mike to the team, Red leans forward and pulls a large flannel blanket and a syringe from the bag on the front seat. He injects Lizzie with a strong sedative, then wraps her in the blanket before pulling her onto his lap. 

"Lizzie" he murmurs against her hair. "Lizzie, it's over, you're safe now."

"No" she whispers back, her eyes closed, still shaking. "No, I won't tell you anything."

Red holds her tight as they wheel away into the darkness and behind them, within minutes, comes the hollow boom and then the fireball, a flash that reflects orange light that quickly gutters to a sullen gleam.

"Exit strategy complete" says the pilot, glancing back over his shoulder at Red. "Sinking fast. No casualties on our side."

Red closes his eyes, and for a moment, he allows himself to shudder in unison with Lizzie. Then he loosens his grip and begins talking to her softly, telling her a story about his past, a story he's already told her once before, until he feels her slip away into unconsciousness.


	9. Recovering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzie is slow to recover

At first, all she does is sleep.

Liz opens her eyes and she's lying on a wide bed in a strangely shaped room. She looks around and she sees round windows, portholes, she's on a ship and there's something somehow very wrong about that.

Liz opens her mouth to scream, and feels the prick of a needle.

She sleeps.

Liz opens her eyes in a hospital, white walls and white coats and an IV bag. She looks slowly, wonderingly around the room until her eyes light on a weary-looking man in a suit, sitting and reading in a chair very close to her bed.

She closes her eyes and waits for the prick of the needle.

She sleeps.

Liz opens her eyes and she's lying in a mahogany sleigh bed in a fantastically ornate room. Bright sunlight is filtering through floor to ceiling curtains in a pale green hue that matches the bed linens and complements the leaves on the assortment of get well plants lined up on the dresser opposite the bed.

Once again she casts her eyes around the room, and an older female nurse in a white uniform is there at her side, smoothing her covers and pulling them back up to her chin. 

"I'm Margaret dear, and you're doing just fine. Just a little more sleep and you'll soon be feeling all better."

Liz waits for the needle, but she doesn't feel a thing.

She sleeps.

***

"Is she better? I mean, it honestly sounds as if she's getting worse."

Cooper is unhappy and he's not interested in pulling his punches.

"I've covered for you long enough Reddington, you've got to bring her back and let her try. Ressler is running out of time."

Red sighs and stares down at the phone in his hand, momentarily indulging a childish desire to fling it out the window of his midtown apartment onto the New York street far below.

Whatever drugs they had given Lizzie on that ship, her memory of the night she was taken was still inaccessible to her. And the bureau in its ultimate wisdom had decided that meant that someone was hiding something.

That perhaps Donald Ressler had been complicit in the attack on Lizzie in Florida, despite the concussion he himself had suffered. A concussion combined with the same drug they gave to Lizzie that unfortunately, or perhaps conveniently, has left Ressler without clear memories of that night as well.

To be honest, Red himself is very interested in why Ressler was found with a damp towel wrapped around his waist in the hallway outside Lizzie's bedroom. Why Lizzie herself was naked with wet hair when she was taken, apparently from that very room. 

Red knows Lizzie and she's modest, above all else. If she and Ressler had showered together it was after, not before.

He swallows hard and gives Cooper the answer he wants.

"I'll ask Lizzie, but .." Red pauses long enough to hear Harold Cooper holding his breath on the other end of the line, a slow exhale like steam escaping. "There are conditions, if she agrees to go back to that house."

"Yes?"

"I set up the security, you keep your people out of sight, and I stay there with her as well."

A pained sigh through the phone is his only answer.

"You know Harold, I'm not at all convinced that revisiting the scene will have any effect on Lizzie's memory" Red says chattily. "She's just finished her detox regimen for the drugs they pumped into her system, and I'm not completely confident that she's completely back with us yet."

"Well, get her back in shape" returns Cooper gruffly, hanging up the phone with a bang that Red assumes owes more to general frustration than Red's gentle needling.

"Sir? She 's asking for you again?"

Margaret, the older nurse with the gentle voice, stood in the hallway, her customary look of concern mantling her lined face beneath her old-fashioned little white cap. Red thought she looked rather like a sheep, but he had so far managed to keep that characterization to himself. She was kind to his Lizzie, and competent, and in any case he'd be dispensing with her services soon.

Florida.

The thought of it makes him sick, and thereby makes him want to go, want to stay there in that house to catch the first glimpse of Lizzie's face, to be the first to hear the details of her returning memory - if it does actually return.

The only way out of this is through, Red tells himself firmly. We can't go on like this indefinitely.

"Coming, coming."

Following the nurse, Red heads to the master bedroom in which he has installed Lizzie, contenting himself with the small guest room just across the hall. He raises his knuckles and wraps gently on the door, a courtesy he observes scrupulously whenever the nurse is on the premises.

"Come in, Red."

Lizzie's voice sounds stronger today. Red pushes open the door and is transfixed by the sight of her standing at the window, the curtains pushed back and sunlight streaming through the translucent lawn of her finely embroidered nightgown.

She is thinner now, more fragile, but the inquisitive tilt of her dark head is the same.

"I feel like a fairy princess, like I fell asleep in my horrible little apartment and awoke here in a palace."

Her voice is dreamy, but her eyes are sharp and suspicious.

Red sighs. It's going to be a difficult day.

"You're safe now, Lizzie" he says softly, stopping before he reaches her and holding out one hand. "This is real, it's not just a dream. Come back to bed and rest."

"I'll just take my break now, shall I?"

The nurse, who has been standing in the doorway watching them, closes the door softly behind her.

"Please, Lizzie" says Red. He's said 'please' to Lizzie more times in the last two weeks than in all the time he's known her.

Lizzie shrugs and turns from the window, then reaches out to take Red's hand. Her fingers are so slender. He strokes her scar with his thumb.

"Why can't I remember?" she asks him, her eyes wide and wet with emotion. "I've tried and tried and it's just like there's a hole in my memory, like I'm broken, like all the dreams are real or none of them are."

Red leads her to the bed, pulls back the covers, then tucks her in, placing an avuncular kiss, just one brief kiss, in the very center of her forehead.

That's all he allows himself, and no more than once each day.

"You're doing much better" he says in a reassuring tone, sitting on the side of the bed and holding her hand in both of his own. "And tomorrow, we're going to take a little trip to Florida - just to see if that helps you remember. Would you like that, Lizzie? To take a little trip with me?"

Lizzie opens her eyes to meet his and for a moment her expression is almost normal. 

"You can take me anywhere, Red" she grins impishly up at him, then the smile slides off her face and she falls asleep before he can even begin to frame a response.

Red sits upright on the side of the bed, watching her sleep, until his neck is sore and his back aches. Until Lizzie rolls to one side, pulling her hand from his grasp.

Then he leaves her in the care of her nurse and goes back into the sitting room to set up their trip for the next morning.


	10. Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Lizzie go to Florida. Is it finally time for the romance?

By jet from New York to Miami, then by limousine up the Keys.

In the jet Red works steadily, barely lifting his eyes from his paperwork, his phone pressed to his ear as he paces.

In the limousine Red sits in the front with Dembe, talking nonstop. Catching up and laughing regularly.

He is wearing a pale linen suit and a straw hat of extraordinarily fine weave.

Liz is wearing a flowered sundress that she doesn't remember owning, and sandals. A woman came to Red's apartment the night before, to paint her toenails gold. 

It all feels extraordinarily odd to her. No nurse, no needles, no bed rest.

Liz eats lunch with a real appetite for the first time since she left the hospital, a club sandwich and fries, slathering each fry with enough ketchup to make Red wince.

As they near the house, Liz recognizes landmarks - the turn for the Yacht Club, a little pink house festooned with bougainvillea and colored, twinkling fairy lights that she had pointed out to Ressler.

"I remember this" she says aloud, as the limousine slows and pulls into the driveway of one of a row of identical white houses. "Look up - this is the one with the hummingbird feeder."

Both Dembe and Red get out and gawk up at the small red plastic device hanging beneath the second floor eaves.

"How on earth do they refill it?" ponders Red, peering up through his orange tinted glasses.

"Maybe from the roof?" Dembe points upwards to the white balustrade.

Lizzie shrugs and tries to drag in her luggage, a casual canvas tote that seems more familiar here in the hot Florida sun than it did back in New York, but Dembe takes it firmly from her and unlocks the front door, then carries their luggage in and sets it down in the foyer.

The floor to ceiling glass door beckon her to the view of the canal, the deck and the pool. And the empty dock.

"There was a boat" Liz reaches out and points at the dock, then covers her mouth with both hands. "Oh, Red, Dembe, I remember a boat."

Red steps to her side.

"Which boat, Liz?" he asks in a sad, grave voice that makes her want to hit him.

"A fishing boat! Right here, that night, there was a white fishing boat." 

Liz is ecstatic - she's remembering more already, she can sense tiny flashes of memory like bright bubbles floating just at the edge of her vision.

Was that Ressler with a sunburn? Did she remember to pack her favorite blue bikini?

"I know which is my room!"

Liz practically dances up the stairs, turning left towards her bedroom at the back of the house.

Dembe has followed with her luggage, which he sets carefully on a small rack in the closet.

"Do you need anything else?' he asks her.

"No, I'm going to put on my suit and float in the pool" Liz returns. She pulls open the bedroom window overlooking the water and gazes down at Red, who is standing on the deck with his hat in his hands. He's twisting the brim gently, but she can tell somehow, maybe it's how he's standing, with his legs braced far apart, that Red is upset.

Somehow Liz feels more like herself now. Is is just that the drugs have finally worked their way out of her brain?

"I'll unpack the groceries before I leave" says Dembe. "If you need me, you know that all you need to do is call." 

He steps to the window and points to the house on the right. The sky overhead is a clear cloudless blue, and the canal water glitters like dark green glass.

"I'll be right next door."

Liz looks at him and he meets her gaze without flinching. 

"You've never said that to me before" she says slowly, watching him withdraw into himself, becoming opaque to her gaze like Red.

He blinks at her, then relents slightly.

"I never thought I might need to" Dembe responds, and then he's out of the room and down the stairs, having closed the bedroom door behind him.

Liz shrugs and pulls her blue bikini out of her luggage. It seems a little loose after her ordeal and she pulls and tugs to get it tied tightly in place, then has to redo all her knots because she has forgotten to put on sunblock.

She lifts the bottle, a fancy French brand she only buys for vacation, and sniffs at it thoughtfully.

It seems like such a stretch, asking Red to sunblock her back, but maybe it will distract him from whatever is bothering him?

If Liz starts thinking about Red, she'll never be able to focus on getting her memories back.

With only a quick glance at herself in the mirror, Liz slips into a white terrycloth robe from the sumptuously appointed bathroom and hurries down the stairs.

Red and Dembe are nowhere to be seen.

Liz hurries back into the kitchen to find both the fridge and the pantry filled with an odd assortment of goodies. She digs through the fridge and extracts a bottle of wine, pulling the cork and then pouring out two generous glasses in plastic goblets designed for use poolside.

Carrying one in each hand, she is about to step out onto the deck when a sound on the stairs makes her turn.

Bare feet. Bare knees below cuffed linen shorts. A loose white cotton shirt, untucked and half unbuttoned. He's not even wearing a hat, and his bare head glistens with a faint sheen of sweat.

Liz realizes she is staring at Red and quickly takes a gulp of one of the two glasses of wine.

"Lizzie?"

"You're wearing shorts." 

Liz knows she sounds stupid the moment the words leave her mouth. Her brain will never be the same again, that's becoming increasingly clear.

Red raises his brows as if to signify that her comment is in poor taste and lifts the other glass of wine from her outstretched hand. He raises it directly to his mouth, pauses, then takes a careful sniff before tasting it.

"It's really good," says Liz. 

Red gives a little shrug then tosses the entire glass back.

"Yes, it was" he responds with a smirk.

Liz makes a face at him and retreats to the kitchen.

"I'll get the bottle," she calls.

She carries it out to the deck to find that Red has arranged himself on a lounge chair with a large white beach towel and a book. He lifts his empty glass toward her as she emerges from the house.

"So pleasantly domestic" he comments as she refills his glass. "Why haven't we ever done this before?"

Liz shrugs and sets her glass next to his, then slips her robe off her shoulders and tosses it onto the lounge chair next to Red's. Then she reaches out and gives his bare calf closest to her a little pat. 

"Move over, I want you to do my back" she says, handing Red the lotion and seating herself on the edge of his lounge with her back turned to him. Spreading her feet apart for balance, she lifts her hair off her neck with both hands.

"Red?"

She looks over her shoulder to find Red still holding his wine glass in one hand and the lotion in the other. 

"My back?" she prompts him. "Red, is something wrong?"

Red shakes his head and sets the wine aside.

"Turn around, Lizzie" he says, his voice sounding unusually low. She turns and feels him spreading lotion carefully from her shoulders all the way to her lower back, his fingers sliding beneath the straps of her swimsuit and just barely past the waistband of her bikini bottoms. His hands curve around her hips, then slide up her sides, then up and over the tops of her shoulders and down the curve of her upper arms.

Liz is about to pull away when Red starts lightly kneading her muscles, following the path of lotion once again but this time with more pressure, working every tiny knot and soreness from the long trip away. 

"Oh." Liz exhales as Red works his knuckles down either side of her spine, leaning forward a little to rest her arms on her thighs as he loosens her lower back.

"Oh, Red, you have amazing hands."

Liz holds her breath as Red stops massaging her for a second.

"I mean, thank you, that felt wonderful."

Red chuckles and takes his hands off her back.

"Go swim and let me read."

She turns and he is sipping his wine and wiping the lotion off his hands on his beach towel.

"I'll do yours later, if you want?" she offers, standing and stretching as she speaks. Her back feels so good!

"Not necessary" says Red, turning the page of his book without lifting his eyes from the page. His tone is cool and Liz flushes, feeling the red heat of embarrassment spreading from her face down her neck. 

She can't believe she has just offered to massage the Concierge of Crime and worse, he turned her down.

She takes one step in the direction of the pool and Red's voice pulls her back.

"I don't require suntan lotion, but I'm sure I could find some part of me for you to massage."

He pauses, allowing his eyes to meet hers in their customary challenge.

"If it's that important to you, Lizzie."

"It would serve you right if I took you up on that" Liz retorts, then turns and flounces dramatically away to the steps that lead down into the pool, swinging her hips although she's not sure Red's even bothering to watch her.


	11. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz remembers

Red sits by the pool and pretends to read. 

His eyes follow Lizzie as she swims, floats, swims backstroke. After so many days of restrained, careful nursing, Lizzie seems wonderfully normal.

Too thin, with shadows under her eyes and a tendency to startle at certain sounds, but so much more coherent. 

Only the thought of Ressler, damn the man, keeps him from taking the next step with her. 

He can feel her reacting to him, but she's resisting it. And everything she's said or done so far could be no more than her way of deflecting him. Women can be attracted to men they don't like, men they don't want, men they only flirt with.

Older men who reassure them of their attractiveness, while keeping a safe distance.

After Tom, Red knows that Lizzie needs more, much more, than just reassurance.

"I'm going up to get my book." 

Lizzie emerges from the pool and stands dripping far too close to Red. She briefly towels her hair with her robe, then slips it on. 

"I'll get my pool towel too - do you need anything?"

Red shakes his head and watches her head for the house, no flouncing now, just her quick, purposeful stride. His longer legs can outpace her without effort; it's one of the ways he irritates her, keeps her on her toes.

They're going to need to talk about The Dead Children soon. He needs to understand what she saw, how she could withstand it, if she has made peace with it already. The man on the boat was an expert in his very specialized field, and his Lizzie is no psychopath. She came off that yacht drugged, blood spattered, and shaking, but silent.

He needs to understand that silence.

Red lifts his glass of wine, but it's already gone warm. He pinches his lips and moves to seat closer to the house, in its shadow, before carefully arranging his towel, book, and a fresh glass of wine at his side. There's a gun under his towel, but Lizzie doesn't need to see that right now.

"Too hot for you by the pool?"

Lizzie comes out of the house and seats herself beside Red, no table between them this time. Red closes his book and gives Lizzie a little frown.

"You tanned - you didn't sunburn" he reminds her. "Do you remember anything else?"

Lizzie shakes her head and unbelts her robe. There's a tiny white smear of moisturizer in her belly button.

"The bathroom window in my room was repaired recently, but I don't know if that's relevant."

Red looks out at the canal and frames his next question carefully.

"Did you look through the master yet?"

Lizzie frowns at him.

"No, I assumed you'd be staying there."

"I'm in the room next to yours."

They gazed at each other for a moment.

"Ressler will be just fine, Lizzie" says Red. He has to say something. Her big blue eyes are intent on his face; he doesn't usually let her get quite this close to him. He tilts his head and smiles, going for mild.

"Let me see your teeth."

Lizzie reaches out her hand to Red's mouth. She stops just short of touching him.

He gives her the severe look this unexpected demand warrants, but opens his mouth, just a little.

Lizzie has perfect teeth. Perfectly straight, perfectly white. So, damn him to hell, has Ressler.

"No, smile" she says, and as he smiles widely, really more of a grimace, she reaches out with her forefinger and traces the imperfect lines of his teeth.

He's never had any part of Lizzie in his mouth before. 

"Why do I keep remembering your smile?"

Red pulls back and examines Lizzie's face. She has her hands clenched in her lap. She's rubbing her scar.

"I wasn't here that night, Lizzie" he says quietly. 

She shakes her head. "I know - it's just that I keep remembering ..."

She blushes and looks down at her hands.

"It's not important."

Red reaches over and lays one of his hands over both of hers.

"Are you positive?"

Lizzie nods, still staring down. The very tips of Red's fingers are touching Lizzie's bare thigh. He gives her hands a little squeeze and unhurriedly settles back into his chair, picking up his book once more.

"Perhaps we should open the second bottle?" he suggests.

Lizzie rolls her eyes, her blush subsiding.

"If we keep drinking like this, I'll be asleep before 10:00."

She slides the open robe completely off her shoulders and sits back in her chair to read. Her pale skin is just beginning to tan; it glistens with lotion and heat.

Has she remembered something about Ressler?

Red can't help but wish for a photo of this moment, the two of them seated side by side, books open, seemingly perfectly in harmony.

He'd label it, "A criminal and an FBI agent enjoy a relaxing afternoon by the pool".

If he took personal photographs anymore, labeled them, stored anything important outside his all but eidetic memory.

They read for almost an hour in silence, as afternoon slips into early evening. The sky is radiant with shifting pastels, high clouds catching the light in shades of orange, pink and cherry.

The second bottle is almost empty.

"Come upstairs with me, Red," says Lizzie abruptly. "I can't stop thinking about that memory."

"Of course, Lizzie" he answers, standing swiftly and holding out his hand to her as she fumbles to mark her place in her book.

She takes his hand and rises, the action bringing her close to him for a moment. 

"After you" Red gestures towards the house.

Clad only in her bikini, Lizzie precedes him up the stairs, trailing her hand up the banister as she goes.

"Can I see your room?"

"Of course."

Lizzie open the door and stands on the threshold. The room is decorated in a tropical style similar to her own. The design is a mirror image - neatly made bed on the opposite wall facing a dresser with a large mirror. There is no evidence of its occupant.

She shakes her head.

"I don't remember this at all."

She has the same reaction to the much larger master suite. It has a balcony on the side, and curling white metal steps that spiral up to a rooftop terrace.

"Your room is next" comments Red, stepping back as she pauses before opening her door. She has walked past, over, the spot in the hall where Ressler fell without any reaction at all.

Red doesn't know if that's a good sign or a bad one.

They walk into her room without turning on the overhead light. Orange rays of sunset are slanting through the window, and a large glass bedside lamp glows yellow. Candles in glass jars flicker in the bathroom.

"I was standing in front of this mirror..." says Lizzie, squaring her shoulders and staring at her own reflection.

Red stands behind her for a moment, then sits down on the foot of her bed.

"Tell me what you remember, Lizzie" says Red softly. "Tell me exactly what you remember."

***

"Please just sit there and let me concentrate."

Liz stares into the mirror, collecting her thoughts.

She can still see his head and shoulders reflected in the mirror, his patient eyes, the open neck of his white shirt revealing the thick column of his throat. Liz realizes she's never caught a glimpse of his chest before; Red always wears layers and layers of clothing.

He looks different like this, more approachable.

More touchable.

She profiles him automatically.

Red wants to do the touching, not to be touched. His expensive suits are not a costume, an affectation like his fedora; they are armor. The armor of wealth and power and privilege, like a uniform bright with medals.

So why is he wearing so little, just shorts and an open shirt? 

"Yes?" 

Red meets her eyes in the mirror, which reminds her that she's staring, and Liz swallows hard on a sudden, rash urge to turn around and push him backwards on the bed. To find out whether she could strip him bare, touch him. Break his formidable self-control.

"Lizzie?" 

Her eyes are wide and she can feel herself trying to hold her breath. She looks in the mirror and then almost instinctively reaches up to touch her hair.

The wig. She had forgotten, she had been wearing a long blond wig.

Why hadn't Red reminded her?

She visualizes the wig, not sodden with blood on the floor of the torture chamber, but long and loose, and in her memory she was drinking wine, too much wine, and she looked in the mirror.

She was naked, stark naked. And she was grinning at herself. 

She looks a little crazy, and behind her Red's eyes are growing ever more intent, so she looks away from him, back at her own reflection and she is thinking about him.

She's thinking about Red grinning back at her. 

And her hand is on the phone.

"No!" 

Liz flinches and whirls towards the bathroom. She sees the men coming through the open bathroom window, the Taser, she remembers having no warning and no time to react.

Her room is getting darker as the sun continues to set. The bathroom is pristine, still and peaceful, just a flicker of candlelight illuminating the unbroken window.

She motions Red to stay seated on the bed and paces back and forth between the bathroom and the mirror.

Nothing more. She remembers collapsing on the floor; her next memory is the dinghy.

They must have taken her downstairs, out the back deck, and down to the dock. If Ressler was still in the shower, at the other end of the hall, on the far side of the room, he could never have reached her in time.

"Ressler's not at fault" she says with determination, still pacing. "There's nothing he could have done. I remember it all now"

For some reason, Red begins treating her to his blandest expression. He's still sitting on the bed, but there is something funny about the curve of his shoulders - if he were anyone else, she would have assumed that he was gathering his strength to stand.

"Aren't you happy that I can clear his reputation?" she asks him. "Isn't that why we came here?"

"I think it's time for some supper" says Red, standing and moving casually towards the door. "Do you prefer chicken, or fish?"

"Salad" Lizzie calls after him as he begins to descend the stairs. "And put some more wine in to chill for after I get off the phone with Cooper."


	12. A New Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a bed is involved. M for content, not language.

Red slices an array of vegetables for the salad as his fish sputters in foil on the grill next to skewers of mixed vegetables, all neatly cut into geometric shapes.

He enjoyed sharpening the dull chef's knife provided by the rental to a razor's edge; now he's enjoying cutting and slicing and chopping every vegetable in the fridge; and at some point in the evening he may very well spend some time practicing his knife-throwing skills. In that empty master bedroom.

How could she have chosen Ressler?

She's on the phone upstairs with Cooper now, congratulating him on his good sense in sending her here. Probably not assigning any credit to his own presence.

Lizzie's recovering nicely now, she'll be happier once she's back at work again, and he really needs to get back to his own life before he says or does something foolish. The house is rented for the rest of the week but they will both leave tomorrow.

They'll still have the blacklisters, for all the good it will do him. He could kill every one of his enemies, and that wouldn't make Lizzie want him.

Rather the opposite, monster that he has already become.

Red takes another swig of his wine. Bottle number three, and he's had most of them, not that he's relaxed at all as a result.

Dinner, unsurprisingly, is not a success, and Lizzie goes up to bed shortly afterward. She claims she is going right to sleep, but Red sits by the pool smoking cigars and trying once again to read until her bedroom lights go dark, and it's more than an hour later.

He doesn't sleep well, as a rule. 

Red tries to use his late night time productively; he's sometimes awake through every time zone and consequently talking with associates non-stop.

Tonight he just sits by the water, trying not to think. Not to feel.

He would strip and swim if he were alone, but he's not about to risk Lizzie coming to her window and looking down at him in the brightly lit pool. 

Now if Lizzie were the one swimming, and he was the one watching?

He's comforted her, nursed her, pulled her naked out of hell, so he's no stranger to her body. That's not the same thing at all.

If Lizzie were swimming naked here in this pool, and she looked up to see him watching her from her window, and she waved to him? Swam for him, for his pleasure, her lithe body twisting through the water below him?

Now that, that would be perfection.

It is four am. Red grinds out the last of his cigar, locks the glass doors, and climbs the stairs silently in his bare feet.

He sets one hand silently on Lizzie's bedroom door. He imagines knocking, inventing some reason to wake her, to kiss her sleepy face once again, or just stroke her tousled dark hair, but she needs her sleep. 

He would even apologize for how he spoke to her at dinner, just for the chance to kiss her forehead one more time.

He shakes his head, standing motionless there in the darkness.

"Red? Red, is that you?" 

He opens the door just a crack without knocking.

"Yes, I didn't intend to wake you."

"Come in, Red. We need to talk."

Red shakes his head in dismay.

How can a woman waking up from sleep in the middle of the night manage to come right out with that damnable phrase?

He takes one step into the room, and Lizzie is turning on the bedside lamp and patting the side of the bed nearest her. He blinks at her as his night-blinded eyes struggle to adjust.

"Come in and sit down."

 

***

"Come in and sit down."

Her request seems simple to Liz, but Red approaches her so cautiously that Liz can't help but glance around the room to be sure there's no visible threat present. 

She pushes herself upright in bed, stuffing a pillow behind her, then clears her throat.

"I'm sorry about dinner" she says, "I know you put a lot of effort into cooking it."

Red shrugs, looming over her. 

"Why am I here, Lizzie?"

"To protect me?"

Red tilts his head, then seats himself on the very edge of the bed. The circles beneath his eyes are deep, and he hasn't shaved since the morning, and he smells like wine and cigars and the sea.

"Here, Lizzie, why I am here?"

"You mean, isn't this a conversation we could be having in the morning?"

He nods. 

"I keep waking up and thinking about you" Liz says, holding Red's calm, quizzical gaze even as she notices the rest of his face going smooth and still in the way she's learned betokens control. "I didn't tell you everything about what I remembered - because I was embarrassed."

Red shrugs, his eyes empty of all but a superficial warmth. It feels like he's receding away from her even as he sits so quietly on the edge of her bed.

"You have every right to a personal life, Lizzie," he begins.

"Stop, you're just making it worse."

Red swallows visibly. She might not have noticed if he were wearing a suit, but beneath his half-unbuttoned white shirt, his chest is moving slightly, as if his heart is beating too fast for his normal rate of breathing.

"I wanted to call you that night, I had my hand on the phone ..."

Now Red looks angry to her practiced eye, his pupils contracting, although most of his face seems frozen in that odd, calm expression he so frequently employs.

Liz persists, unaccountably encouraged.

"But it's better this way, to get it out in the open, not to lie .. by omission."

"Like Tom."

Liz nods. 

"I want, I need, someone I can be honest with. So I can be myself."

He's the only one she can really talk to about Tom. About so many important things.

Red knows her so well, he knows everything about her, how can he not already know this, too?

Why is he making it so difficult for her? If he doesn't want her, wouldn't it be kinder to just tell her no? 

Liz rubs her sleepy eyes.

Does that, can it only mean, that actually he does want her? That he's been holding himself back from her for some complicated, labyrinthine reason?

She almost died. He might never have known how she feels - it has certainly taken Liz long enough to figure it out.

Love is not pretty, love is not easy, love is not safe.

Love is a broken, dangerous man who challenges her every day, who heals her and teases her and teaches her, who stands like a bulwark between her and the evils of the world.

The love of a good man. 

If Red is capable of loving, she has to believe that he's capable of loving her.

Liz licks her lips nervously, staring at Red, trying to find the words. She parts her lips slightly, watching him mirroring her action. His face is going softer now, in a moment he's going to pat her knee and wish her happy dreams. It's completely infuriating.

"If you don't kiss me right now, I'm going to kiss you!"

Red just stares at her.

Liz scoots forward and puts her hands on Red's chest, then slides them slowly up to the back of his neck. As she leans toward him she keeps her gaze on his mouth, ready for any sign of recoil. His eyes are open and he's so still she imagines she can hear his heart pounding. 

Their lips touch, then cling. 

Liz closes her eyes and concentrates on the taste of him, his arms encircling her so lightly, as if he thinks she might disappear. Red kisses her gently but deeply, just the way she likes to be kissed. 

She pulls back for a second and looks at him, really looks. His eyes are shining and his shirt is pulled askew because she's been fondling his chest. He has the perfect amount of chest hair; she understands the kissing, he's had plenty of time to practice, but how is that every part of Red is so perfectly formed to her desires?

Liz looks down at herself and her nightgown is down around her waist, although she doesn't remember how it got there.

"Hang on, Lizzie."

Red grabs her and rolls her over on top of him, pulling her loose from the covers. She leans up on her elbows, then rains kisses down on his face, on his neck. She unbuttons the last buttons of his shirt and presses herself against him.

Beneath her, he's struggling out of his shorts, somehow managing to yank down her nightgown as well. Liz pauses in her caresses to kick it off.

Their entire bodies are touching now, shifting, figuring out how they fit together.

Liz looks down at Red triumphantly as she slides wetly back and forth against him, not raising up on her knees enough to let him inside her. Not yet. She's never had his complete attention to this degree. 

And he's thicker, longer, than anyone she's ever been with.

"You're ... going to be ... sorry" Red pants, a certain desperation in his eyes.

Liz relents and raises herself up, feeling his hands guiding her into position. Looking down at him with her mouth open, showing him her desire. His face is savagely intent.

She lets out little cries as she works her way down, feeling him shudder each time she manages to take him a little deeper, until she's rocking her pelvis against him.

Neither of them last very long that first time.

Red has an unbearably smug expression on his sweaty, satisfied face as she cuddles against him, her head on his chest and his thumb makes little circles against her back.

"Can we stay here together for the rest of the week?" Liz whispers, pressing a little kiss to his shoulder.

The sun is coming up, the bed is a wreck, and Liz is ready for coffee with cream and kisses, not necessarily in that exact order.

"Mmm-hmm" says Red, then he gives Liz's hair a little tug. "But what about Ressler?'

"Ressler can take Darla fishing somewhere else" Lizzie pronounces, snuggling closer to press her ear to the laughter rumbling through Red's broad chest. 

***  
Smiling from his perch on the next door terrace, Dembe keeps watch over the darkened house, with only one light on, as the Florida sun rises on a perfect new morning full of promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you RedandLizzie for your supportive comments. You helped me finish this fic quickly, more than you can know.


End file.
